League Judgment: Lucian the Purifier
by imtoojuicy
Summary: The League Judgment for a man of the light as he forays into the darkness of his mind. A one-shot featuring Lucian the Purifier.


It has been over fifty steps since he was last graced with light, yet the measured clops of his boots, heavy and unhurried, do not falter. The oily onyx shine of his leather trench coat and the golden glint of dual filigree holsters have no place here, having been snapped up and carried off by the jaws of the ether long ago. Endless shrouds of darkness constantly brush against and fall away from the tall cliffs of his hollowed cheeks like ancient spiderwebs rendered useless by centuries of dust. Piercing green eyes see nothing in the pitch black, but the fury burning within them, both worldly and self-serving, guides him through this interminable stretch of the unknown.

Such is the life of a man of the light who spends his every moment, waking and sleeping, in darkness.

The eyes see something now and the boots draw to a halt. _Massive_ double doors, more obelisk than anything else, loom over him as they emit a soft unearthly glow; the black ivory surface is elaborately engraved with the scrimshaw of giants. Feeling more like ant than man, he slowly raises his head from bottom to top, and the hieroglyphic history of the League rapidly scrolls before him. His heart moves very little these days, but it stirs a bit at the story of a lonely sorceress of the light, fallen to her knees and weeping as her brother walks away for god knows what reason. The tale is a sad one, yet his lips twitch upwards at the corners nonetheless. A man of the light drawn to the plight of a lady who wields light? Surely there is a joke in there somewhere, or perhaps a poem.

Nothing comes to mind, for it has been an eternity since he last laughed.

The obelisk doors split apart noiselessly. The glow is gone, along with the smile that never was. From beyond the doorway, he can hear the filtered hush of silence, the rush of a faraway whitewater river. No one or nothing calls to him, but he steps forward nonetheless. For the Council knows that the beckoning of darkness is enough for the likes of him.

The even clopping gait resumes as he continues straight ahead. The obelisk becomes whole behind him.

The shrouds of darkness are back against his cheeks and greater in number. Unlike the shadowy nuisance of the Great Hallway, however, this darkness is malevolent and he pays heed as his hands now draw forth his relic guns of the Ardent. Twin muzzle-less barrels of holy marble, each pillar set in its own fanged grip of purifying silver. The marble comes alight when in the presence of corruption, and right now, they are radiant with righteous alarm as they reveal his immediate surroundings. Which is of little use since only bare floor surrounds him.

He can feel a familiar evil stalking him from behind the forest of cobweb curtains, and a new sound now plagues the darkness: the grating of iron chains as they drag against a ground rougher than the smooth tiles below his feet. The grating joins his clopping feet to make grisly music together. It is a song his nemesis loves to play before he strikes out for your soul.

The song abruptly comes to a stop, the briefest of warnings before a sickle on a chain lashes out from the darkness. The sickle, red with wet blood and dry rust, looms before his bulging eyes of intense green. For a moment, the crusty blade is as large as the obelisk itself and, as it lunges for his neck, he can see that only the gleaming razor edge is cleaned on a regular basis. For it is the only part that matters.

Lucian drops onto his back at the speed of light to avoid the sickle, his maneuver aided by gravity as his shoulder blades hit the floor with a resounding thump. The guns are already trained along the guiding lines of the outstretched chain, following the tell-tale trajectory. Then he unloads, his silent powder-less guns pumping the darkness full of leaded light.

He snarls in victory as he watches his sideways hailstorm of holy glory vanish prematurely, riddling an armored body that now screams with the throes of a mortally wounded animal. The screams culminate into a mournful whimper. The body topples over with a sickly gurgling crash.

The room is now awash with light, and the body is not where he expected it to be. As a matter of fact, there is no body at all. There is only the smooth tiled floor, the corner-less wall of a cylindrical room, and a bar counter with a pair of stools before him. The infamous Zaunite chemist, Singed, stands behind the counter with a shot glass and white cloth in hand, and the unlikely bartender asks him from behind a mutilated mouth heavily wrapped in gauze:

"How about a drink?"

A man of the light does not drink, but an unsure Lucian sits down anyway as he wonders what the hell is going on. Why does his Judgment continue? He has vanquished his imaginary arch nemesis, and yet the illusions persist? Does the Council really think he will start drinking to drown away the grief and sorrow?!

Then it suddenly occurs to him. There are two bar stools, not just one.

On cue, stately footsteps suddenly sound from behind, coming into existence no more than ten feet away. He does not have to turn to see who it is; the whiff of a familiar sandalwood fragrance paints all the picture he needs to know.

A lithe and tall female form slips onto the stool next to him, her own templar's leather coat hissing against the wooden seat. She sits sidesaddle so that she may gaze upon his sharp profile and her velvet voice may caress his ear: "Hello love."

He is well aware that she is a lie, a trick, a figment of his imagination and nothing more. Yet he turns to mirror her sidesaddle. He turns to face his deceased wife, Senna.

She is as beautiful as he remembered, which is to be expected since she is merely a construct derived from his memories. Her quiet smile belies the fierce eyes. Her death-dealing hand reaches up and tenderly touches his chin. She is barely more than a dream, and yet her face and touch are real enough. Real enough to almost feel love. Real enough to renew his grief.

White hot agony wrenches at his heart from all sides, threatening to tear it asunder. The blade of regret slices away mercilessly at his tightened chest, much like that rusty bloody sickle which scored his torso several times on that fateful day. For a moment, he cannot breathe as the worst memories flood his mind with forlorn misery.

Since she is not Senna, the woman cares not for his pain. "You look well, Lucian. I am glad." Technically not a lie, since he is very much in stellar shape physically.

Despite the grief, his eyes remain dry. And he refuses to call this construct by _her_ name. "It is not easy, but I push onwards."

She nods in approval. "A templar's duty is never done so long as there is darkness." The fierce eyes now cloud over with a cold alien presence, one that most certainly does not belong to this approximation of Senna. "I wonder, however. Is the duty of a husband done when he no longer has a wife?"

An uproar of rage surges forth at the Council's cheap provocation, but he bites his tongue for the most part. "You dare question the motives for my vengeance, summoner?"

"I was a templar as you are, my dear Lucian. I knew the risks going in against the horrors we faced. I knew that not all love stories have happy endings. Why not settle affairs at the Shadow Isles themselves? Why do you needlessly torture yourself to gain entrance to the League?"

Lucian does not bother hiding the disdain in his voice. "If you think this qualifies as torture, summoner, you have led a very pleasant life indeed."

The Senna doll stiffens minutely at Lucian's own provocation. All pretenses are gone. Even if the face is the same, she is definitely another person now. "True vengeance cannot be achieved through the mock battles held at Summoner's Rift, templar. What can you hope to achieve by striking down the effigies of your Shadow Isles quarry? _Why do you wish to join the League?_"

The true templar responds to the false templar as if the answer is as plain as day. "As the denizens of the Shadow Isles rally together their monstrous forces, so must the Fellowship of the Light respond in kind. Too many men and women cower before the the frightful visages of the Shadow Isles, casting aside their arms and succumbing so easily to evil's will. I will show these people that one man alone, armed with only a pair of holy stones and his conviction, can stand tall against the onslaught of darkness."

His deceased wife raised an eyebrow. "So you wish to inspire the masses into joining your cause."

"Yes."

"Most would never believe they could become the warrior you are."

"Let those men think what they want. The Fellowship has no use for such men anyway."

"It is rare for the Fellowship to actively recruit. Desperate times call for desperate measures?"

"I merely wish to show the people the truth. That these beings of darkness can be defeated, and they are not inevitable like they make themselves out to be."

"Even so, few will join."

"If their conviction is strong, the numbers do not matter. If Senna has taught me anything, it is that one man can make all the difference in the world."

Something changes within Senna's eyes, the alien becoming someone familiar. "Indeed."

For a moment, Senna's face flickers with a smile so real, so her, that he actually reaches out as she fades into nothing. His gloved fingers claw helplessly at the dissipating phantasm even as her unseeing eyes look past him into space. The bemused Singed, the bar counter, and the bar stools also disappear, and Lucian drops inches onto the ground, his boots landing with the heaviness of his heart.

The corner-less room is deafening silent, mulling over this man who stands before an unseen jury. Then a summoner's voice. Female. The one who had possessed his Senna.

"Welcome to the League, champion."

Far away and from behind, the obelisk doors split open again. And this time, Lucian can see that the Great Hallway is brightly lit.

A curt bow from the waist. "Thank you."

And with a sweep of his long coat, the new champion turns on his heel and heads back to where he came from. Two boots, clopping. One man, alone.

No. Not quite alone, he reminds himself as his left hand brushes over her gun on his hip. Not quite alone.

He looks straight ahead, for this is the best way to deal with loss, he has found. Thus he does not see the gun glow softly at his absent-minded touch, as it sings the silent song of a voiceless angel.

_**END**_

Short little one shot. Lucian is an awesome character design, so I had to take a stab at a judgment for him. :)


End file.
